


Kill Karen Page - Part 3 - Targeted

by KastleInTheSky



Series: Kill Karen Page [3]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 02, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:44:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7624483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KastleInTheSky/pseuds/KastleInTheSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karen is haunted by nightmarish visions as she finds herself beginning to see Frank in a different light. A deadly enemy makes himself known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kill Karen Page - Part 3 - Targeted

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow a lot of talk about water and breathing?  
> Part 4 coming soon! Thanks for the read!  
> -KITS

The back gates of the prison slid open clamourously as the early afternoon sun beat down on Fisk and Lester. Guards scurried to hush and contain the several prisoners who watched on yelling, heckling, and cursing, as Fisk softly pulled Lester to a pause right outside the gates. He handed Lester a white letter envelope, patting him strongly on the shoulder.  
“You will find these come in handy,” Fisk advised. “They are directions to an arm’s dealer I have business with down in the Meat Packing District. He will give you whatever you need.”  
Fisk continued, “There are other materials you’ll find valuable. I trust that you will be as discreet as possible, and of course…” Fisk sneered. “…even a whisper of my name…”  
“I ain’t dumb,” Lester grunted. He grabbed the envelope with both hands and opened it. Aside from the directions to the arm’s dealer, there was a picture. Lester peered on at a far-away candid shot of Karen Page picking up a tray of coffees in a fitted cream blouse and navy blue pencil skirt. Lester snickered, waving the picture in the air and grinning widely at Fisk.  
“Oh, I’ll get this done alright!” he laughed.  
Fisk smiled. “If it all goes to plan, then you’ll find yourself a free man, Mr. Lester.”  
Lester nodded his head in agreement and shook Fisk’s hand. In the other hand he still held the picture of Karen, ogling it perversely. He let go of Fisk and began to saunter away.  
“You’re a good man, Fisk!” he yelled behind him. The officers closed the gates as Lester walked away out of sight and into the shadows.  
* * *  
Karen awoke peacefully on the mattress the next day. The sunlight was warmly basked across her face as she stretched her arms and shoulder, her chest and torso, and finally her legs. She lied on her back looking outside the window. There were tiny sparrows perched on the bars on the fire escape chirping excitedly. Frank was sitting right beside her, gently stroking her hand.  
“There she is…” cooed Frank. “I’ve been waiting for you”. She looked up at him sweetly for a moment before suddenly his free hand shot up gripping her tightly around the throat. Her arms flailed as she choked and gasped, trying to beat him off of her, but it was fruitless. His grip seemed to tighten and tighten, and from the kitchen she heard a quiet giggle.  
She looked over, her blood ice cold as she watched in horror as the silhouette of James Wesley approached her. He wore the same bloody suit as he had the night she shot him, holes in his collared shirt and all. She frantically thrashed around on the mattress, but Frank’s grip grew stronger as he pushed her deeper into the mattress.  
“Why, why Miss Page…”, Wesley snickered. Karen could feel tears running down her cheeks as she looked back at him. The only words Karen had to describe the look in his eyes were the essence of evil, but his facial expression was much kinder, almost sympathetic looking.  
“There’s nowhere left for you to hide,” he called over to her. “We’re going to find you. We’re going to kill you.” Karen gasped more. We?

From the darkness behind Wesley, an older wrinkled hand appeared and rested on his shoulder. Karen squinted into the shadows desperate trying to make out a face. Instead, the shadow repeated.  
“We’re going to find you.”  
Karen thrashed under Frank’s weight. She knew the voice, and from behind Wesley the man showed her his face. Karen desperately tried to scream. The two men repeated.  
“We’re going to find you.”  
Frank joined in.  
“We’re going to find you.”  
* * *  
Karen gasped violently as she sprang up and awake. She grasped at her throat drenched in a cold sweat and breathing intensely. She had been dreaming. No choking. No Wesley. No…  
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey, hey,” Frank rasped from the bathroom. He charged over to her, his expression concerned.  
“Hey, hey, Jesus, Karen,” he murmured. “You alright?”  
Karen was calming down, her breathing still labored as she answered, “Yeah.” She swallowed hard.  
“Yeah… just a, uh… just a bad dream is all.”

Frank was again sitting on the corner of the mattress by her feet. His worried face eased a bit, and he nodded.  
“That’s alright,” he responded. “I’d say ya earned it.”  
Karen wasn’t sure what he’d been doing while he’d been in the bathroom, but as Frank sat at her feet, he was shirtless. Karen tensed up as she tried to keep herself from looking like she was staring, but she was curious. This was a combat veteran, the Punisher, for Christ’s sake. He’d been shot and stabbed more times than she had probably said her own name. As such, his torso was marked and scarred immeasurably. She kept glancing at him, simply amazed at the amount of white lines and circles covering his olive skin and naturally toned muscles. Frank eventually caught on to her looks. He pointed to a bullet scar on his right tricep muscle.  
“See that one?” he asked. Karen nodded, slightly embarrassed.  
“That ones from that night, on the rooftop. Y’know, with Grotto. DA’s guys got a good hit, I’ll tell that. Hurt like hell. Now, this one…” He turned toward Karen so she could see his full, broad chest. He pointed to a second long scar on his left breast, merely an inch or so away from where his heart sat.  
“Fisk sicced some prisoners on me. Walked into it I guess.” The sound of Fisk’s name made Karen wince ever so slightly. Frank noticed that, as well.  
“Anyway…”, he said as he sat up. “I got sommin’ I wanna do with you today.” He bounded towards his closet and grabbed himself a clean shirt, then over to the kitchen table and threw on his leather jacket and another black baseball hat that he pulled low over his face.  
Karen nodded. “Yeah… yeah that’s fine.” She stood up, still a little shaky from her nightmare, and still somewhat from the sight of Frank.  
"Just gimme a second," she asked.

She stood up, still wearing Frank's clothes from the day before, headed over into the bathroom, and closed the door gently behind her. Turning towards the dingy and speckled mirror, she took the first good look at herself since before she left for work the day she was ambushed. She looked pitiful, small purple circles forming underneath her bloodshot eyes. The hair near her scalp was becoming greasy, and twin pimples had formed underneath the right corner of her lip. Karen turned the faucet and began to run cold water. She stuck her hands underneath, letting the water run over the backs, through her finger tips, turning her hands over so that the water could caress her palms. She cupped them, the water building up inside. Karen gently brought her face to meet her hands and splashed herself with it repeatedly, pausing to take deep calculated breaths in between.  
“It was just a dream,” she whispered to her reflection in the mirror. “Just a dream. Just a dream.”

A knock at the door interrupted.  
“Karen?”, Frank beckoned from outside. “C’mon, we gotta get going.” Karen stalled and looked around the bathroom for a moment to search for any kind of towel to dry her face. She found one on the back of a hook near the shower, quickly dried off, and opened the door back up. Frank was standing right near the door, her purse and jacket ready for her in his hands. This pleasantly surprised Karen.  
“Ooh…”, she peeped, smiling slyly. “What service. Five stars!” Frank rolled his eyes, trying not to return the smile.  
“Let’s get a move on please.”

Frank kept an older, raggedy black Chevy Malibu in an otherwise abandoned lot behind the apartment building. The two approached it discreetly, and as Karen came closer to it, she could notice the numerous dents of varying sizes, and several bullet holes. Some holes still had the bullets inside.  
"Huh," Karen expressed breathy. "Now I know why you stole my car instead."  
"It's a loaner," Frank replied dryly. Frank cocked his head toward the back of the car, and Karen looked back at him confused. Again, Frank used his forehead to motion in the direction of the trunk.  
"Take a look."  
Puzzled, Karen stepped back behind the car, and as soon as she arrived at the trunk, she had to cover her mouth with her hands to keep herself from laughing. Pasted on the back of the car were several bumper stickers - a large Venus symbol, a stick-figure family set with 3 adult women figures and 2 cats, and another that read "REAL GIRLS EAT BACON". Karen began snorting, and had to turn away from the car. She looked back at Frank, who looked on at the car deflated as he approached the driver's-side door. As she followed towards the passenger's side, grinning mockingly, Karen raised a fist to Frank.  
"Girl power!", she snorted.  
"Just get inside," Frank sighed.  
"Where did you pick this bad boy up? Girl, I mean! Bad girl." Karen tried to feign sincerity, but more giggles slipped through.  
"Y'know what the best part is?", Frank asked. The two slammed their doors shut, jarring the otherwise eerie silence of the alley. Karen gazed over at him, chin underneath her as she smirked.  
"What?"  
Frank turned to face her, leaning over the center console as if to whisper to her. Karen felt her face flush slightly.  
"Bullets were there when I picked this up," Frank chuckled as he started the car. Karen sat back in her seat, clearing her throat and pushed wisps of her unwashed hair behind her ears.  
"So, uh, what is it that you wanted to do with me?", she asked. They drove out of the lot, through the wide alley next to the building, and out onto the road.  
"Wanted to take you out to this... old field out in Brooklyn. Deserted, completely abandoned. Used to be a Power Plant or somethin'. Now it's just a big, overgrown lot."  
"So... you want to kill me before Fisk gets the chance?", asked Karen playfully.  
"I wanted to take you out there," Frank started sternly. "To learn how to shoot properly."  
"I know how to shoot just fine, Frank," Karen affirmed.  
"Oh yeah?", Frank contested. "Let me ask you then, where were you aimin' the other night, huh? When you shot that shit bag, where did you aim?"  
Karen's lips trembled searching for an answer. "At... him...", she mumbled.  
"Yeah, exactly," Frank scoffed. "You gotta fine-tune a lot of things. I know you got a lot'a heart, Karen, but you need skill too. Now, me and Red..." Frank trailed off a little. "Me and… Murdock... we're gonna have your six at all times, at least one of us. But..." He stalled again. "In case sommin' happens..."

Frank continued on. Karen couldn't help but feel even the slightest bit patronized. She grunted back at Frank occasionally when she thought the time was right, but she kept her concentration focused out the window thinking mostly about Wesley, the gun on the table, his menacing laugh in her dream, the shadow man behind him. Frank eventually stopped giving her instructions, and as they passed through the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel, Karen found herself lulling back to sleep as the undulating shadows and dull yellow lights rolled passed her. She concentrated on her breaths, timing them succinctly, in and out, in and out, occasionally losing the pattern when they ran over a pothole or stopped suddenly for traffic. Her eyes fluttered open and closed sporadically; she was desperate for sleep but horrified of what she might see if she kept her eyes closed for too long.

“So…”, said Frank suddenly, eyes fixed intently on the road. The sun was beaming down now directly into the front window, and Frank’s hat cast a shadow over his eyes and his cheekbones, leaving only his stubbled jaw illuminated. He was bitting the inside of his lower lip again.  
“You were, uh… you were dreamin’ or something this morning? That why you woke up like that?”  
“Somethin’ like that…”, Karen answered modestly. She gazed back out the window, now looking out over the rows of townhouses and onto the Upper Bay.  
“Can I ask about what?”, asked Frank.  
Karen shook her head slowly. “Doesn’t matter. They’re just dreams anyway.” She shrugged, “Can’t hurt you.” She flipped her head onto her left shoulder to look back at Frank.  
“What about you?”  
“What about me?”, he replied with another soft, raspy chuckle in his voice.  
“Do you…”, Karen started. “Do you ever have nightmares?”  
Frank’s face fell from a gentle smile to a hardened, stern expression. He started again with his lower lip.  
“Somethin’ like that…”, he coughed. Karen felt like she could melt into her seat and die.  
“Jesus… I’m sorry, Frank, I shouldn’t have…”  
“Forget it,” he demanded. As he answered, they were pulling into an enormous vacant lot, just like Frank described. There seemed to be miles of blank pavement, weeds popping up in all directions from every nook and crack.

 

Frank exited the car first and walked back to the trunk. Karen, at first only watching him move in the rear view mirrors, opened her door and leapt out, jogging over to meet him. Frank opened the trunk, and Karen’s jaw dropped in horrified amazement.  
“Holy shit…”, she exclaimed. In Frank’s, trunk were close to two-dozen firearms of various sizes.  
“Frank, what if we got pulled over?”, Karen interrogated.

Frank didn’t pay her question any mind. He began rummaging through the trunk and grabbed two folding tables and a large black laundry back, filled with god knows what, Karen thought. Frank walked for off into the distance, only around 15 feet, and set up one table. He then walked another 25 to 30 feet and off to the right to set up the other, so that that were two diagonally staggered stations in between Karen and himself. At the furthest station, Frank took out of the bag what from far away looked like a large snow globe and set it down right in the center, and two cantaloupes, setting them down one closer to each end. He walked forward to the closest table and took out three decently big garden gnomes, set them on the table, and walked forward.  
“Gnomes…”, Karen whispered.  
Frank grunted. He was crouched down in front of the gnomes with a marker cap now in his mouth. He stopped in front of all three gnomes and drew black X’s on their foreheads.  
“A little much, don’t ya think?”, Karen asked.  
“Gotta learn somehow,” said Frank. He paced back towards the trunk, and began picking up and examining each gun. Karen watched at a distance from a few feet in front of the car, watching his thick fingers grip and twist gun after gun, beads of sweat forming along his hairline. He settled on two different guns and carried them over to Karen – a large hunting rifle and an eerily familiar silvery-black pistol. Karen squinted intently on the last gun, trying fervently to place it, but to no avail.  
“Come here,” Frank called her as he set the pistol down on the dusty pavement and moved with the rifle in front of the farthest table. Karen followed, but at a distance, curiously watching Frank. When he stopped, Karen stopped too.  
“No, no,” Frank scolded. He lifted his free left hand and beckoned her. “Ladies first.”  
Karen glared at him hesitantly. Again, he motioned for her with his hand.  
“Come on, now. I need you to hold this.”  
Karen complied. She hobbled over towards the rifle extended in Frank's hand and grabbed it from him forcefully.  
"Fine," she said as she snatched it. She held the barrel high in her left hand, tracing the fingers of her right along the warm black metal. She pulled it closely to her, holding it long and pointed tucked near her breast.  
"Not like that," Frank laughed. "Are you kiddin'?" Frank stepped directly behind Karen, pressed up warmly along her back. Karen flinched, frankly surprised at his willingness to get so close to her. He took her hands in his, his fingers slipped over hers to line up to them exactly. Karen found herself breathing hastily.  
"Now, relax," Frank whispered, his mouth pressed up to her ear. He lifted her hands and the gun so that the barrel now rested cozily along Karen's cheek.  
"That's the first thing, ya' gotta relax, ya' gotta breathe steady." Frank paused for a moment to let Karen's breathing catch up with her. His hands still over hers, Frank pulled the gun up to cock it, the sharp click leaving no echo. He brought the gun back to her cheek.  
"See that?," he asked, motioning to the top of the gun. There sat a small target fixed on a divot right above the barrel.  
"Close one eye," he said. Karen breathed in, and out slowly. She closed her right eye. In, and out.  
"You got somethin'?", he asked. Karen had fixed her open eye on the cantaloupe furthest to the left.  
"Yes," she hummed. Frank tightened his arms around her, evening her shoulders, while loosening the grip on her trigger finger.  
"Stand up straight," he directed her. "Steady feet, get ready, this is gonna knock you back a bit... and..." Frank lifted his hands from hers. "Fire."  
At the command, Karen pulsed her finger on the trigger. Frank was right - the recoil of the gunshot pushed the gun powerfully into her shoulder, causing her to fumble slightly backwards. She ran forcefully into Frank's chest, and his arms tightened around her to keep her still, but her force did not move him. Karen looked forward out to the far table and beamed at it delighted. She had blown the top half of the fruit into pieces, only a bowl of it still intact on the table.  
Frank roared with laughter. "Alright!", he exclaimed. He patted her tenderly on her sore right shoulder, then pointed past her to the right cantaloupe.  
"Now try that one. On your own this time."  
Karen stepped to her right, lifting the gun and cocking it by herself. In her peripheral, she saw Frank place his thumb and index finger on his chin and smirk over her. She focused the target, doing everything Frank instructed. Breathe. Stand up straight. Aim. Steady...

Karen fired the second shot. Immediately, the melon combusted into bits. Pulp, juice, and stray pieces of rinds riddled the table.  
"Woooo-eeeeeee...", Frank whistled. Karen turned to see him still with his fingers on his chin, nodding on proudly. "You ever think about joinin' the Marines?"  
"Told you I knew how to shoot," Karen quipped proudly. She turned toward Frank and hoisted the rifle flirtatiously, ready to cock. She batted her eyes.  
"Not exactly a damsel after all, huh?"  
"I never said that," Frank answered still smirking.  
"Should we try one more?", asked Karen.  
"I think you're ready to move on for now," Frank responded. He stepped towards the handgun he'd left on the ground and gestured with his hands for Karen to follow. Karen laid the rifle down gently and joined him. She looked down at the gun, still vaguely unsure of why she felt she recognized it so much. She furrowed her brow as Frank handed it to her, and it felt naturally uneasy in her hands. Stepping in front of the table full of gnomes, she held it up, cocked the top, and raised it to eye level. Frank approached behind her, readying to hold her in position once again.  
"I got it, Frank," she informed him. Frank complied, moving quietly back, hands in the air.  
"Go for it," he advised.  
Karen held the gun steady in front of her, controlling her breathing, in and out, in and out. Something was different, however. She stood up straight and aimed directly at the X mark on the centered gnome. She steadied her feet, and waited.  
"Fire," commanded Frank.  
She couldn't shoot right away. She had to ease herself from this bizarre feeling this gun gave her that she couldn't shake. She took several more deep breaths and from next to her she could hear Frank coaxing the shot from her. One last time, in and out, and she fired.

Karen never noticed that her shot had shattered the gnome in exactly the right spot. Instead, her vision went completely black, and flooding into her mind came the vivid image of a dead James Wesley slumped over in a chair across a long table from her, a gun in her hands and pointed in his direction. She dropped the gun immediately after firing, turning away from the targets completely. She’d remembered where she’d seen that gun. It was the model gun she’d used to murder a man once before.  
“Karen…”, Frank called. “Y’alright?”  
“…Can we leave now?”, she asked  
“Karen, we just started,” contested Frank.  
“Frank, please…”  
“Karen, ya’ shot the damn thing’s head off!”  
“FRANK! Please!”

Karen was trying desperately to keep it together, the recoil of the pistol echoing in her hands and wrists. A bitter irony, an attempt to protect yourself reminding you of why you needed to in the first place, she thought. She rubbed her palms to her temples in large circles and stifled tears from forming in her eyes. Karen stormed back over to the car without hearing any further response from Frank. She opened up her door, sat down, and rested her head on top of the glove compartment. She saw it all still as she closed her eyes, over and over again, filling with rage and despair and she wished, even prayed, that should forget it all. Dealing with all this fallout was fine, just please, let her forget that night.  
Karen heard Frank open the trunk and start packing it. Looking up, she saw that he’d cleared the entire lot in only the couple of minutes she’d been sitting there. The trunk slammed, and Karen heard the gravel underneath Frank’s feet crunching as he approached his door.  
“I’m sorry,” Karen began as Frank climbed in, but he was quick to interrupt her.  
“That was the one, huh?”  
Karen stared at him blankly. It almost wasn’t useful to her to ask him how he knew that. It was frightening for her to think about how sympathetic he’d been being towards her, always patient, never prying. It made her think that maybe the two of them shared commonality, and that frightened her even more.  
“Hey…” Frank was looking over at her, that warm, hard-nosed compassion in his eyes. “What do you say we go back to your place for a little, huh? Get yourself a shower, pack up some clothes.” He extended his hand to the shifter and reversed the car back towards the main roads.  
“Sound good?”, he asked her.  
Karen sniffed, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her jacket.  
“Sounds good,” she mumbled back.

The two drove back to Hell’s Kitchen, over highways and through the tunnel, and the whole while Karen again kept her face pointed steady out the window. She and Frank had not exchanged words since they’d pulled out of the lot. Karen’s thoughts were racing way too quickly for her to form words, or whole sentences. Blips of shooting Wesley, the dreams she’d been having, the night she was attacked, even now oddly visions of moments she’d been having with Frank were all zipping back and forth in her head. She needed a cold shower, she thought, absolutely, and definitely her own clothes. She was still wearing the same pair of black sweatpants that Frank had offered to her a few nights ago, though he’d given her a clean shirt every day. In fact, she’d been pretty sure he had gone out and discreetly purchased a fresh six-pack of shirts from the drug store for her. Perhaps this small return to normalcy would be good for her, she fervently hoped.

They stopped to park about a block or so from Karen’s apartment, for safety’s sake, she assumed. Frank turned the car off and the two sat in a tense silence for a moment, before Frank spoke.  
“Do what ‘cha gotta do,” he started, “and we’ll get out of there as soon as possible, alright? Risky of us even to be here, but…” He trailed off. Karen exited the car first, wrapping her jacket tightly around chest, as it was growing chilly in the late afternoon, and the sun had begun to set. Frank followed, his black cap tucked over his eyes. He trailed behind her watching everything, and his hand never left the pistol he kept tucked now in his waistband. Karen grabbed her keys from her bag and opened the front door.  
“Let me up first,” Frank suggested. “Make sure it’s all clear.” Karen pushed the door open with one arm, stepping out of the way to allow him entrance.  
“Second door on the right one flight up,” she said slyly. She was fortunate enough to now live in a second-floor one-bedroom in a dilapidated walkup, forced to leave her last apartment because of the complaints from neighbors after a rain of bullets flew through her window and into the walls, creating a paint chipping problem in the apartment next to her. Frank ascended the staircase with his gun ready. He scanned the hallway, then called for Karen to enter. Karen climbed the staircase and walked nimbly up to her door, key ready, and opened up. She bounded inside and immediately into the bathroom. She threw her purse on the cracked tile floor, turned the light on, and stripped herself nude in practically one motion. As the water of the shower spouted on, Karen ran her hand under the cool water. She climbed in, letting it trickle off her head and down her skin, running her hands through her hair. Frank had told her to hurry, but she couldn’t help but stand there doing absolutely nothing for a few moments. Breathe in, breathe out. She stood there simply and deeply breathing, trying to relax her muscles. She grabbed for her coconut shampoo and scrubbed away at her head. The soothing scent helped even more as she breathed in, breathed out again.

As she rinsed, a ferocious banging erupted at her bathroom door.  
“Karen, hurry up!” Frank yelled. She couldn’t have been in there for more than five or six minutes at this point, and she grabbed for her coconut conditioner bottle.  
“One second, Frank!”, she answered. “Jesus…”, she muttered to herself. Frank knocked again.  
“MOVE!”  
Frustrated beyond believe, Karen huffed, rinsing her conditioner and scrubbing the rest of her body at the same time as quickly as possible. She turned the water off, grasping blindly for the towel she’d placed on the lid of the toilet. Wrapping it around her, she climbed out and opened the door.  
“What the hell, Fr…”  
Karen was taken back by the sight of Frank, his eyes frenzied again, biting his lower lip, with a duffle bag full of her clothes already packed sitting on her dining table. He thrust a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt at her.  
“Put this on and let’s go,” he demanded.  
“Frank, what did you even put in there?”, Karen asking, attention at the bag. She started for her bedroom, but Frank grabbed her arm tightly.  
“Put this on and let’s go,” he repeated, his voice shaking with what Karen assumed was unjustified anger. She pulled away from him.  
“Let me GO, Frank,” she yelled as she bounded towards the room, shoving open her door. Frank called after her, and as the door swung open and Karen looked around, she froze understanding. Her room had been utterly ransacked. Her drawers were pulled out of the dresser; her underwear was madly thrown all over her bed and on the floor. The mattress had been flipped so that it covered her windows and left only a thin brim of light to illuminate the room. On the farthest wall was something spray-painted in black, a symbol Karen could easily recognize, although its presence baffled her. She made out the shape of a huge bulls-eye target decorating her room.


End file.
